


Alleviation

by Chocoholic777



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Burning Bodies, Contemplation, Dead minor characters, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-24 15:44:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3774304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocoholic777/pseuds/Chocoholic777
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary - Although she had no words to lessen the pain, Margo knows it's the matter of taking paced steps when treating one's emotional wounds.<br/>TW - Spoiler alert for Daedric Quest of "Waking Nightmare"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alleviation

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own anything related to the Elder Scrolls franchise. Nor have I made profit off if this piece of fiction.  
> Margo and story, however, belong to me.

She dragged the last corpse over to the other two, piled up like logs, tossing the hacked, bloodied body on top. Her steel grey eyes scrutinised the death mask of the Justiciar; acid yellow orbs set forever in raw terror, pleading for mercy corrupting that proud, devilish face besides the forehead crushed inwards from the Nord's ferocious head-butting. The solemn warrior pours the lamp oil over the dead Justiciar and his two Elven dogs. Standing a few feet back, she threw a torch onto the flammable heap of dead Thalmor. She watches the fire consume the bodies, roasting golden flesh and destroying the velvet robes and heating the moonstone armour to a glowing hot yellow. 

The Nord observes the burning a few minutes more before she stiffly turns away, trekking up the stone steps of the curving staircase. 

Margo makes her way back onto the first floor, lumbering through the doorway to the entry hall. From where she stood behind the lectern, she spots Erandur still huddled under the great Sabre Cat pelt the Nord wrapped him in after she dispatched the Thalmor beasts. His head hangs low, long curtains of greying hair partially cover his face as he stares blankly from shock and shame. Margo clenches her hands into tight fists.

He didn't deserve this! The Nord fiercely declared to herself. 

In the past, during the time the Dark Elf confessed to her of once being a priest of Vaemira he hid from her, Margo would have believed that the elf deserved any hardships that came his way, such as this predicament. However the mature and more wiser Nord knows people such as Erandur should be admired for changing for the better, to atone for their sins he has done by returning to Nightcaller Temple and sending that cursed Skull of Corruption back to Oblivion. Knowing full well, regardless of the priest's past life as a Daedric Worshipper, Erandur did not deserve to be attacked by those damn High Elves.

Margo stepped over the heavy debris, standing near the priest of Mara's side as she contemplated what to say or do for the elf. In the end the Nord sat down on the same pew he sits upon, not quite touching but being near enough so her body heat can be of some comfort to him. She knew from her experiences in dealing with victims traumatised from violence and, in some cases, rape whenever she was sent on rescue missions or come across them that physical forms of comfort are out of the question. The Nord still shudders in disgust and shock of a particular one; a Redguard girl, no more than 19, was malnourished stick-thin while swollen with the seed of one of those Falmer abominations, which took a lot of will power for Margo not to vomit while escorting the hysterical captive out of the cave and into the nearest civilisation. She never knew what became of the Redguard, only prayed to the Divines that the girl has recovered and got back to building her life.

Margo glances at the elf from the corner of her eye, studying the bandages and salves she used from her knapsack wondering if they will suffice Erandur's physical wounds. She had to dress his injuries, including wiping the vile, foreign semen dirtying his flesh only allowing the stoic priest to clean his abused intimate areas. The Nord gave him a few health vials and a cure disease potion once he completed his task; it is always important to clean out your wounds, regardless of the situation, in case of infections that can be fatal. 

Margo internally beats herself for not coming to the temple sooner. She could have slaughtered the rapist bastards before they violated her kind-hearted, Dark Elven friend. She should have not stopped by the shops to sell off the extra gear and potions the Nord didn't need! She could have... should have...

That is just it. All these rhetorical solutions are of absolute no use to her. What happened has happened. What she needs to do is offer support and proportional comfort to Erandur now.

Margo gets up to retrieve her knapsack, riffling through it for the kindlers and flint to start a fire to make some dinner. A horker stew would do just fine. She was about to ask Erandur permission to use some of his firewood, the Nord froze in surprise when the old elf wrapped his sinewy, velvet soft arms around Margo's neck. She sat there, waiting patiently for him to do or say something, her breath slightly hitches when warm, wet tears softly fell on her broad shoulder. 

The warrior's weathered face softens, moving her left hand she reaches and tenderly holds onto Erandur's forearm. He had been there for her own woes. The Nord had opened her heart out to him when she revealed her past wounds that needed to be reopened and cleaned of the infection poisoning her psyche. Such as how she basically abandoned her young family to sate her wanderlust, regretting not going back in time before her husband died and her daughter was sent off gods' knows where. How she brutally murdered a bitter, sadistic caretaker of an orphanage in Riften out of rage in thinking her own daughter was subjected to such awful treatment. How she was a terrible and selfish woman, a terrible mother and wife, who should have died in Helgen by the headsman's axe or by that dragon. He listened, no judgement made or needlessly questioning her on her past actions. Instead he laid a compassionate hand on the Nord's shoulder, simply stating she is a person of passion and honour who has a heart of gold to care for those close to her.

She allows Erandur the support and comfort he finds in embracing her, literally using one of her shoulders to cry on. Margo sat there as long as the priest, her friend, needed.

They will get through this, one step at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> I've also submitted this to y!gallery, with Broug replacing Margo, in case anyone is more interested in reading this story with Broug in it.


End file.
